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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229058">No Regrets</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxpanda92xx/pseuds/SpockPandaSaurus'>SpockPandaSaurus (xxpanda92xx)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Batfamily (DCU), Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Family Fluff, Found Family, No Romance, No Sex, no beta we die like robins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:00:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,268</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229058</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxpanda92xx/pseuds/SpockPandaSaurus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Bruce didn't regret having his children in his life, even when it meant making sacrifices or going through some kind of inconvenience, and the one time he did. </p><p>(Really, he did. Definitely. No need to look so doubtful, Alfred; he meant it this time).</p><p>(No he didn't.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bruce Wayne &amp; Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake &amp; Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>302</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dick</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This one has been finished and edited and re-edited about a dozen times since 2017. And then somehow I forgot I finished it and was trying to figure out what to do for the last chapter, when it was, in fact already written? No idea what happened there.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce tossed and turned, willing time to move faster or his mind to clear, so that he could either get up and move on with the day or get some sleep. It was one of those nights where every doubt he had about his crusade, about bringing a little kid into it, about the increasing worry lines appearing on Alfred's face, snuck up on him and whispered in his ear. To make matters worse, he'd inhaled a small bit of the fear toxin a villain calling himself "Scarecrow" had been using on civilians. He'd managed to cover his face in time, so he was doing far better than Dick or the others nearby who'd gotten a face full, but it certainly didn't help his already troubled mind.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He was especially worried about Dick. He'd done what he could for the boy. He synthesized the antidote and held him as he cried and screamed, rubbing his back and making what he hoped were soothing noises. When he'd finally settled enough, Bruce had tucked Dick in and sat with him till he fell asleep, but it didn't feel like enough. He wasn't good at this, and he knew it. He might legally be seen as Dick's father, but he acted more like his much-older brother, more often than not. Alfred felt he needed to step into his new role more, but Bruce had argued that Dick already had a father, even if he wasn't here anymore, and he didn't want to take his place. Alfred Pennyworth hadn't tried to supersede Thomas Wayne, after all. Alfred's eyebrow raise and dry, "Indeed, sir" told him he wasn't fooling anyone, least of all the person who knew him best. Still, it sounded better than, "I did this on a whim to save the boy from becoming like me but I know fuck all about parenting". Especially since it would result in having to put $5 in the newly instituted swear jar (proceeds would be going to the Buy Dick a Present Fund, which wasn't a bad thing, but the principle remained).</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Footsteps in the hall had him sitting up and prepared to attack before he processed that they were the small, still somewhat unfamiliar tread of Dick. He relaxed and laid back down as the door opened. "Bruce?" a small, scared voice whispered into darkened room.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"What is it, chum?" he whispered back, cringing a little at the old timey sounding nickname. He'd wanted an affectionate endearment and that's what his brain supplied? Definitely not father material.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Can I sleep with you?" The small body was starting to poke its way into the room, as if unsure if he was welcome. That hesitancy hurt worse than most of the punches Bruce took every night.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Of course, Dick." He held the blanket open and had barely blinked before the boy was burrowed into his side. He chuckled a little and rearranged them so he had his arms wrapped around his charge. "What's wrong?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I had a nightmare and I'm not used to my room yet, so it looked weird and wrong and there's a tree casting a really scary shadow in my window but I didn't want to close the curtain because then it would be too dark and-"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Shhhhh," Bruce whispered, rubbing his back. "You're safe in here. Do you want a little light in here?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"…Yes, please," Dick finally answered after a pause.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce flicked on the lamp that he'd attached to the headboard and looked down at the mop of black hair below him. He pressed a kiss to the top of it and ruffled it. Spying the book he'd left on his bedside table a few weeks ago, he asked, "Do you want me to read to you?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Like a bedtime story?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Mmhm."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Yes, please."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce picked up the book and moved his bookmark back to the front. Maybe he'd be able to get through it now that he had company. "The Adventures of Robin Hood and His Merry Men, Chapter One."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He read until the boy's breathing evened out. When he turned out the light and resituated himself to be more comfortable, Dick mumbled, "G'night, Dad."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>His heart swelled. "Good night, chum."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>(Though he'd come to question his choice of literature the first time they met the Emerald Archer of Star City and Dick imprinted on "Uncle Robin Hood" and his young sidekick, he'd never regret the new tradition of reading Dick to sleep whenever the nightmares came.)</span>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Jason</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce knocked lightly on Jason's door, hoping not to wake him if he was passed out. The slurred "C'm in" wasn't promising. He should have known better. Of course Jason would sleep lightly, ready to fight or flee at the slightest sound.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He opened the door and found the boy rubbing his eyes and yawning. He must have fallen asleep while hard at work, judging from the paper stuck to his cheek. Bruce picked it up when Jason's movements sent it fluttering to the floor. "Spanish extra credit?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I'm almost done."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Jay… you speak Spanish. Fluently. You have a perfect score in the class. Your teacher is looking at letting you skip a level next year because you're too advanced."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Yeah, I know, I was at the parent-teacher conference too. Stupid waste of time."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce frowned. He set the paper on the desk, hoping it wouldn't get lost in the other papers spread across it. Necessary or not, it would suck to have all the time Jason put into it wasted. He rested his hand on the teen's forehead while saying, "Parent-teacher conferences aren't a waste of time."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I coulda told you everything they had to say."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce noticed the increased pressure on his hand and wondered if Jason was aware he was leaning into the touch. The fever was easy to feel at first contact, but he left his hand in place in case it was providing any relief. "I still enjoyed the chance to hear your teachers brag about what a good student you are."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Nngh."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"That's what I thought. Bedtime, Jason."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Bullshit. Patrol time, not bedtime."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce snorted. "That's a dollar for the Buy Dick A Present Fund."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Fuck him."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"That's six dollars. Stop before you end up buying him his next motorcycle." The swear jar still had the old construction paper label on it declaring the money would benefit Dick. They had changed it to read "Jason" for a week, until he'd proven more clever than his predecessor and sworn up a storm so the jar filled quickly and he got to spend his allowance that much faster. Changing it back to Dick quickly curbed his tongue as the tension between the boys ensured he would never want to do anything nice for the older boy, ever (Bruce pretended not to know about how long he spent deliberating over what present to buy Dick for his birthday, even though the day was still three months away). Only Bruce and Alfred knew that any money in it would really be added to Jason's college account.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>" 'M fine, Bruce, gotta patrol."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"No, you have to take medicine and get rest." He looked at the sulking boy below him and commented, "You know, a night off sounds nice. I haven't taken one in years. Let's watch some TV, yeah?" He moved his hands to rub Jason's back and shoulders.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"If I'm gonna stay in, I should work on my homework."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I'm keeping you home sick tomorrow, so you can work on it then if you feel up to it."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Jason glared up at him. "I can't stay home over a stupid cold! I'll ruin my perfect attendance record!"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce narrowed his eyes. "I thought I told you to stay home a couple days ago because you didn't sound so good."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Alfie had the day off so there would have been nothing to do, and we were doing Much Ado About Nothing in class. It's my favorite!"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I thought Pride and Prejudice was your favorite?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I meant my favorite Shakespeare play, obviously."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Obviously. Well, since you can't be trusted to look after yourself, I'll just have to call off with you."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce saw the flicker of hope in his eyes before it went back behind the careful mask Jason kept up, a balance of trouble-making scamp and jaded young adult. "I dunno, the company's stock might drop a few points if you don't go in."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I'll take that risk." Seeing Jason was still resistant, he added, "I have both Much Ado About Nothing and Pride and Prejudice on DVD. And Then There Were None too."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Think Alfred will make popcorn?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce chuckled. "I'm pretty sure you'll be limited to soup. But I'll eat some with you. After all, I'm 'sick' too, right?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Jason grinned and stood, and they made their way downstairs. When they were nestled in blankets with soup and medicine and the TV playing quietly, Jason mumbled, "Thanks, Dad," so quietly that Bruce almost missed it.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He hugged him tighter. "You're welcome, son."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>(That night, there was a break out at Arkham that Batman could have helped with, and a scandal broke at Wayne Enterprises that Bruce Wayne could have helped spin. He couldn't regret it, though, especially not as he laid a small body in the ground, and he still didn't regret it when a much larger body with a red helmet pointed a gun at him).</span>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Tim</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce knocked on Tim's closed door and waited for the agreed upon time before entering. It was unlocked, so he was welcome. They'd agreed to a set of guidelines after Bruce learned his latest partner liked to play his music loud in his headphones (no amount of lectures about hearing loss had made a difference). Unlocked door meant, "I probably can't hear you over my music", while locked meant, "Please respect my privacy and only break in if important." As expected, Tim was sitting at his desk, fidgeting with a pen and staring at the wall ahead of him. Bruce worried about how often he found Tim lost in his thoughts. With everything that happened to him, they probably weren't a safe place to be.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Dinner time?" Tim asked when Bruce got his attention. He twirled one earbud cord back and forth around his finger while music continued to blare in his other ear.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Not quite. Thought we could have a chat first."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim pulled out the other earbud and turned off his music. "What's up?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I got a call from your school. They say you've been skipping class."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce expected embarrassment, denial, or lies to try and dodge the metaphorical bullet coming his way. He was thrown by the indifferent shrug he got instead. "Only the boring ones. I do all my homework and show up for test days. My grades are fine. It's nothing to worry about."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce sighed. "You can't just skip class, Tim. I don't care how boring it is. Attendance is -" He paused, sighed again, and restarted this conversation. Tim didn't respond to lectures like Dick had. He wasn't nearly as bothered by punishments as Jason had been (he was pretty sure Tim just found loopholes and slipped through them somehow, but he had no proof). Tim responded best to logic and reason. "What do you do when you're not in class?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I work on cases." Bruce didn't mean to react, but his face must have changed because Tim scrambled to add, "Not field work! I know the rules. One time, some friends were going to have lunch near that dry cleaners we were sure was a front and invited me, but I didn't go because I didn't want you to think I was working without you. I just work on the paperwork part. I read reports and see what we missed and look at surveillance photos and stuff."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"And what if someone were to see what you were working on?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I do it all on my phone, which is super encrypted - Oracle helped with that, but I didn't tell her why, besides the obvious. I sit away from everything, with my back to the wall and keep my body curled over my phone so no one can see what I'm doing. I'm being careful, I promise."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Your first period teacher also told me you've been sleeping in class."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"It's super boring and I'm always super tired."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Are you not getting enough sleep here? We can change your schedule," Bruce offered. He knew there was something he was missing in all this, but he also knew it would be useless to be straightforward and ask.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"No, I'm fine! I've just been staying up a little later to get some extra training in."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce furrowed his brow. "I never hear you moving around."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Not that kind of training," Tim explained. "I practice my computer work, like hacking and coding, because I can do it from my laptop."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>There were a lot of questions on Bruce's mind, but the one that made it to his tongue was, "Why are you doing this to yourself, Tim?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>For the first time in the conversation, Tim's mask slipped. Gone was the confidence, replaced by something much heavier that Bruce couldn't quite place. "I have to be the best."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"At what?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"At Robin. I can't lose Robin. It's all I have left. Don't take it from me." Bruce grew alarmed as he noticed Tim's breathing increasing and eyes widening. Desperation and panic were clear in his features now. "I'll go to class or sleep more or never sleep again, just don't take Robin, it's-"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce pulled the boy into his lap and held him tightly. He rubbed his back and whispered, "You're okay, Robin, you're okay," over and over until his breathing was normal and the shaking was from his body recovering instead of falling apart. He loosened his grip to give Tim room to move away, but didn't let go. Tim made no move to leave. "I'm not going to take Robin from you," he assured Tim gently. "It's yours. You've earned it. You've done everything I've asked and more, so much more. And Robin isn't all you have left. You have me. If you told me you never wanted to be Robin again, you'd still have me. The adoption papers are being processed as we speak. And even if something goes wrong and they never get filed properly, you have me. And Alfred, and Dick. You don't have to be the best. You're good enough as you are, and I'm sorry if I ever made you doubt that."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim clung to his shirt and sniffled. "You promise?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I promise."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>They sat like that for a long while, long enough for Tim to drift off into a light nap. Bruce shifted to a more comfortable position, but he never let go of the boy. When Tim woke back up, he looked sheepish. "Sorry for all of that."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Don't be." He finally released Tim as the teen pulled away, stretching and popping his back. He looked around the room more closely. "What have you done for fun lately? Everything I see is related to cases or school."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim glanced at his gaming corner, where he had the latest of every console on the market. "Being Robin is fun."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Tim."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Not much," Tim admitted, looking down.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"It's important to unwind," Bruce chided gently. "You need to relax to be at your peak mental health, and I need my partner in good condition." He walked over and looked at the shelf of games, noting the light layer of dust that had accumulated from lack of use. Guilt ate at him, but he ignored it. He was going to fix it, and it was useless to dwell on the past (yes, he appreciated the irony of the thought, but he stood by it in this instance). "Are any of these for two players?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim's eyes widened, the most excited Bruce had seen him in a while. "Are you gonna play with me?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"If you want."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim's face fell. "But it's almost patrol time."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Gotham can look after itself for a night."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I never thought I'd hear you say that."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce ignored how his heart clenched. He couldn't keep Tim living in the shadow of Jason forever. He deserved better. "It's been… a long time."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim seemed to understand and looked sad, but walked over to games to pick one out. He stood extra close to Bruce, and Bruce shifted his weight so that they were touching, just a little. Tension seemed to drain out of Tim even more. He picked one and held it out to Bruce, leaning into his side. "This one."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He looked at the orange character on the front, but didn't recognize it except that it was from a series he knew Tim enjoyed. "Is it fun?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Hell yeah! It's the best racing game ever!" Tim declared, excitement lighting up his eyes again. "Oops, swear jar," he muttered, patting down his pockets to try and find a dollar.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce chuckled. The construction paper was completely faded, but the jar still read "Dick Grayson". It was filling slowly, and Bruce couldn't wait to surprise Tim with a gift from the money in it. "Then I definitely don't want to miss out on it. I'm gonna go change into comfy clothes and tell Alfred we'll be eating in here for dinner. Does that give you enough time to get it set up?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"More than enough."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Then I'll keep it quick." He pressed a kiss to Tim's temple before walking away, and was gratified by the brilliant smile that lit up Tim's face.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>("What the fuck? Was that a cow you just threw at me?" Bruce asked incredulously as his car respawned, not regretting for a moment the contribution he'd be making to the jar after this night. Tim just cackled in response.)</span>
  </p>
</div><div></div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The game they were playing was Crash Bandicoot: Tag Team Racing, in honor of the many, many hours my brother and I logged on that game.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Cassandra</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <span>Cassandra was a first for Bruce in many, many ways. He'd thought three boys were enough to prepare him for fatherhood, but girls were something else entirely. He had finally felt he was able to handle children and all that came with them, and then he had to go and adopt a girl. A perfect angel of a wonderful girl, granted, but still. He'd realized it the first time he made an emergency tampon run and was overwhelmed with number of choices there. And Cassandra was a special case, on top of all that.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><span>Right now, Bruce was working with the quiet noise of activity in the background to keep him company. Tim was working on some type of report on his computer. It might have been for school or for a case, but knowing Tim and how fast his mind worked, it was probably both. Cassandra was practicing handwriting on the couch across from Tim. The library was cozy, and Alfred would surely be by soon with tea and snacks. Bruce was reading over his Wayne Enterprises paperwork. He'd let it pile up as there had been an Arkham breakout that resulted in multiple major villains wreaking havoc on his city. But now they were back in custody, and the only havoc being wrought was by his WE assistant on his schedule. There was a large amount of important paperwork for deals that were coming due, meetings with shareholders to be attended after he'd cancelled them the first time around, and certain accounts that needed reviewing.</span> <span>What I really need,</span> <span>he thought,</span> <span>is a partner I can trust in the company. Really trust, the way I trust Lucius, except they could help with all of this.</span> <span>He looked at Tim, who was now starting to doze off while still typing his reports.</span> <span>Maybe some day….</span></p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>The peace lasted for a while, until Tim broke the silence with a soft, "The fuck?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce took in the scene, and decided that the situation warranted the reaction and Tim would not owe the Cassandra Jar any money (he'd introduced a second swear jar now that he had more than one kid living at home to spend the money on. It was a weird feeling he still hadn't entirely adjusted too, but not a bad one). Tim had woken up from his accidental nap to find himself covered in crumpled paper balls. Bruce looked to Cassandra. The girl was glaring down at her hands in her lap. Bruce couldn't be positive, but it looked like she was about to cry.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim shot Bruce a look asking if he needed to do anything, but he shook his head. Bruce was Cassandra's father; he'd take care of this. Tim nodded, set his laptop aside, and rolled over to tuck himself in the back of the couch and give them the semblance of privacy. "Cassandra? What's wrong?" Bruce asked over the rustling of the paper that Tim didn't bother to dislodge.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He walked over to kneel beside her when she didn't answer right away. "Broken," she finally whispered, not meeting his eyes.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He carefully checked her fingers and hand for damage. There was none. Her pencil and pen seemed okay. "What's broken?" he asked when nothing met his gaze.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Me. My hands. Can kill. Not write my name pretty."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Pretty?" he inquired, confused.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"With the." She waved her fingers in loops through the air. "Like him," she added as Alfred entered with a tray.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce understood now. "To be fair, no one's handwriting is as pretty as Alfred's." Catching on, Alfred smiled and set out the snacks he had brought, laid a blanket over Tim and his paper couch mates, and patted Cassandra's head as he left again.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce took Cassandra's hand in his. "Why do you want to write pretty right now? You now we'll get there eventually. We looked through your packet together and it's there after you master regular letters."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>She pulled one hand away and pointed at a pile on his desk. Her adoption paperwork, all filled out except for a few lines that needed her signature and initials. Cassandra put her hand back in his and gave him the poutiest puppy eyes he'd seen since Jason tried to sneak cookies before dinner. He fought back a grin, even though he was sure she could read it in him anyways. "You want to write your name in cursive on your paperwork?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>She nodded. Bruce stood, pulled her to her feet, and wrapped her in a hug. "Okay. We can sneak ahead and work on that. Alfred won't mind."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>The sound of the printer spitting out paper startled them both. When he saw what it said, he turned to stare at his youngest son. Without rustling the paper around him enough to alert them, he'd used his phone to make cursive worksheets online that said things like, "Cassandra Cain is a great little sister. Cassandra Cain could kick my ass and I'd thank her. Cassandra Cain's hair is flawless and should be insured for ten thousand dollars. Cassandra Cain's hands aren't broken. Cassandra Cain is wonderful." In that moment, Bruce was absolutely certain of something he'd already suspected: Tim Drake would surpass him some day. Bruce hadn't been nearly that sneaky at sixteen, limbs too weighted with teenage awkwardness despite how hard he trained. And there had never been any doubt that he'd be an even better detective if he continued to apply himself.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Deciding to focus on the definite matter at hand instead of potential futures, Bruce showed the papers to Cassandra. "Your brother made you some extra homework." As she studied them, he cleared the paperwork from his desk. "Come sit with me and I'll help you."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>She settled in his lap and he had a sudden moment of panic. He hadn't had to do this with any of the other boys. Memories of sitting on his mother's lap, pencil in hand and tongue sticking out to the side in concentration, jumped to the forefront of his mind. Bruce wrapped his hand around hers and began explaining in low tones about how you're not supposed to lift the pencil from the page for cursive, and his panic left as quick as it came.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>They worked through the day on the pages Tim had made. Every time Cassandra finished, she would ball it up and throw it at Tim, further burying the (</span>
    <span>possibly) sleeping boy. She was smiling though, so he assumed it was okay and kept reading the sentences to her and explaining the letters as they went. After a while, he taught her how to make paper airplanes and throwing stars to give her some variety and something else to focus on. His (not so) little girl was beaming by the end of their lesson.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>(He had no regrets that day. He didn't regret it when Alfred made him clean up every paper airplane around the foyer after they threw them from the highest stairway. He didn't regret it when Wayne Enterprises complained about their paperwork having weird crease lines, as if folded repeatedly into weird shapes. He didn’t regret going into a meeting with a very shaky cursive "Cassandra Cain" written in Sharpie across his arm under his suit, and especially didn’t regret it when Cassandra signed her own name very prettily on her adoption paperwork.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Tim regretted trying to prank her when he discovered how adept she was at throwing those little origami stars, however.)</span>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Damian</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <span>With Damian, Bruce was full of regrets. He looked at the small boy hiding in the night by his side and felt all of them pressing down on him. He regretted not keeping track of Talia and finding out about him sooner. He regretted every minute of every day that this boy had suffered all horrible manner of abuse in the name of training. He regretted that taking in Damian had driven a wedge between him and Tim, and between Damian and Tim. He regretted that he hadn't been there for his first steps, his first laugh, his first words, all of the firsts that Talia had stolen for him and kept for herself. He regretted that he hadn't been there for his son.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He pulled a corner of his cape so that it wrapped around Damian. "I am not cold, Batman. I do not need your coddling."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Just helping you blend in," he lied easily. "The dark cape will hide you better than your red and green."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Your plan has merit," Damian finally agreed after some moments of silence, "but I do not need the crutch."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Caution isn't a crutch," Bruce chided lightly. "It's a strategy."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Tt. It's a coward's strategy. The League would never-"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce sighed. He had a small, cranky child and an unreliable informant who gave him bad intel on where a drug trade was going down. He didn't want to deal with this. And then it struck him that he didn't have to. He was the goddamn Batman and billionaire Bruce Wayne. He didn't have to do anything except control the child pushing aside the cape that was over his shoulder. "Come on, Robin, we're going home."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"But nothing happened," Damian whined. “I wanted to fight someone.”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce didn’t reply, just walked towards the car, lost in thought. Damian followed, grumbling the whole time. His mutterings petered off when they reached the Cave and Bruce told a very surprised Damian that they’d eat their post-patrol dinner upstairs like normal people for a change. His goal was to get Damian into a less mission-oriented mindset. He wanted his kid to get to be a kid, even just for five minutes. Time spent together away from cape and cowl, from cave and computer, from cases and clues, might help with that.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Alfred was on vacation, but he’d left notes for where Bruce could find anything he needed. It was hardly the same as anything Alfred would have made, but Bruce put together a modest meal. There was bread, chicken nuggets, baby carrots, and pudding for dessert. Admittedly, chicken nuggets weren’t the best source of protein and Bruce was quite frankly surprised they were even in the freezer. He figured Alfred didn’t want to risk his kitchen being destroyed in his absence, and they were easy. The same could be said of the baby carrots - too small to truly contain the nutritional value their lifestyle required, but good enough for now. He brought out both jelly and jam for the bread, unsure of which Damian preferred (and, if he was honest, what he himself preferred - he just accepted what Alfred handed him).</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>They sat down for dinner, and it was quiet. The type of quiet that was… unsettling. It wasn't that Bruce wasn't used to quiet children. Neither Tim nor Cassandra were the loudest of people. They both made at least some noise, however, quiet sounds of movement and activity that was comforting in its own way. Not Damian. Whether by choice or learned necessity, when he wasn't making arrogant statements or demands, the boy was silent. It was unnerving to have to remind himself the boy was there, when he'd grown used to children being like Dick, bright and talkative and cheerful.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He wished Dick was here for dinner and patrol tonight. Dick handled him better, but he had a temper and Damian seemed to have a knack for finding everyone's last nerve and plucking it. Tim was happy to find excuses to be away from his new brother, and Bruce didn't blame him, even if he didn't necessarily approve. He would have found excuses to be away from Damian's verbal abuse if he'd been in Tim's shoes. Cassandra was hanging out with Stephanie and Barbara, and he didn't know if it was because of Damian or just wanting girl time. He tried to look at it through the ten year old's eyes; his entire world had been upheaved and he'd been more or less dumped off on the father he'd so wanted to meet (if Talia could be believed), only to find he already had four other children and wasn't expecting another. He was coming from a cold, brutal upbringing where he was treated like one of the most important people in the world, and becoming the runt of the litter. Not an easy transition, but he certainly wasn't trying to make it any easier on himself or anyone else in the family.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He tried for conversation, but it was met with short dialogue that was hard to build off of. "You stopped to pet a cat on the sidewalk today. Did you have a pet cat before? Or any pet?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"No, they were not allowed."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Would you like one?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce thought he caught a spark of interest, but it was so fleeting he could have just wished it into being. "I see no purpose in having one."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He filed the thought away later, to discuss with Alfred since pet care would primarily fall to him anyways, and the silence resumed. He studied Damian surreptitiously, trying to see himself in him. There was his jawline, there were his broader shoulders…. It was a new sensation. Then he tried to turn the analytical part of his brain off and just be with his son. Damian didn’t need scrutiny, which was probably a part of his tense silence. He needed a father. A dad. His mind was racing for something to lighten the mood when he saw Damian looking at the baguette on the table like it was Tim. “What’s wrong with the bread? </span>
    <span>Why is it so hard?”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce reached out and tested one of the two loaves he’d set out. It was definitely too old to eat without cutting the crust off. He opened his mouth to explain, then paused. He could work with this. “Oh, I think it’s exactly right.”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>“I’m more likely to lose a tooth biting into that monstrosity than gaining sustenance,” Damian snapped.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>“I never said it was for right for eating,” Bruce countered while wondering how many baby teeth Damian still had.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He watched Damian out of the corner of his eye as he went back to his meal without offering further explanation. He wondered how long it would take for the boy to crack. It took longer than any of his other kids would have lasted, but less time than it would have when he first moved in. Progress. “If not for eating, what is its purpose?”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He picked it up, turned it over thoughtfully as if to fully study it and decide its worthiness, and then bonked Damian on the head with it. Over the outraged spluttering, he declared, “Yep, perfect.”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>“What is this meaning of this?” his son yelled.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>“I was just trying to give you what you wanted earlier.”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>“What’s that?”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>“A fight.”</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>“I will not fight you with bread!” Damian cried incredulously.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><span>“Suit yourself.”</span> <em>Bonk.</em> <span>Bruce took another bite.</span> <em>Bonk.</em> <span>And another.</span> <em>Bonk.</em> <span>Damian was fuming but refusing to rise to the challenge. Bruce wracked his mind. Any of his other kids would have been all over the room by now, laughing and playing along. Damian needed extra effort. He continued tapping Damian on the head until he remembered the ultimate offense he had ever paid Jason. The boy had sulked for a week. “Boop,” he said in the most babyish voice he could summon as he brought the bread to poke Damian on the nose.</span></p>
</div><div>
  <p><span>With a battle cry, Damian grabbed the remaining loaf and swung it at Bruce.</span> <span>Got him</span><span>, was all Bruce could think as they jumped up and began to spar in earnest. After that, it was a matter of testing his reflexes against his son’s. He learned baby carrots to the eye hurt, but got his revenge when a chicken nugget found Damina’s nose. “Boop!” he yelled again while holding up a plate to block a spoonful of flung jam.</span></p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>There was a bowl of fruit always on the table for daytime snacking, and Damian lobbed an orange against the wall so hard that it bounced off and hit Bruce in the back of the head. “Boop that!” Damian yelled, and Bruce’s heart soared. That wasn’t an angry shout, but the playful holler of a young kid. He threw what was left of his chicken nuggets in rapid succession, then tackled the boy while he was distracted. “Father!” Damian squealed as Bruce’s fingertips sought out any ticklish spots. “D-dad, stop it!” he giggled, dumping what was left of an overturned pudding cup into Bruce’s hair. He just tickled harder and laughed along.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>(He regretted adding pudding to the menu because that burned when it got into an eye already irritated by carrots, but nothing else. He didn’t regret having to replace the dining room curtains because it was impossible to get the jelly stains out, or having to face Alfred’s irritation and exasperation. It might have been one of the first things he didn’t have any real regrets about when it came to Damian.)</span>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Too Many Family Members</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce bit back a groan. His head was trying to stage a rebellion and murder him, he was certain. He hadn't suffered a migraine this bad in a long time. He got headaches from time to time, but they rarely worsened to the point that he couldn't function. Today, however, something as simple as walking around was too jarring for his skull, and even laying down put too much pressure on his head and made him want to die. Alfred was preparing some tea and medicine for him. His job was to get himself to his bedroom where it would be dark and quiet. He wasn't a fan of how many stairs lay between him and his goal, but it was better than staying downstairs.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Damian and Tim were going at it, again. He couldn't keep track of who had started it or who was in the less-wrong this time. He just knew it was violent and loud. Dick, who could usually be counted on to diffuse his moods, was occupied by a shouting match with Jason. He wasn't sure what this one was about either, just that the two had found each other's last nerve at the same time. In another part of the house, all three Batgirls were having a hilarious time doing…. something. Movies? Gaming? They'd told him what they were turning the sitting room into an epic blanket fort for, but it was too much effort to remember. Granted, laughter was a better sound than yelling, but his brain didn't appreciate the difference like his ears did. And in yet another room (why did he have so many rooms again?) Duke, Kate, Luke, and Harper were having an explosive game of Uno. Duke's declarations of revenge felt like an especially painful betrayal; he was normally such a source of calm and quiet in the chaos of this household. Yes, way too many fucking stairs was preferable to being around his way too fucking many family members right now.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He had just gotten comfortable in his room when Alfred came in. Bruce had never been so grateful for his butler's mastery of stealth and silence. He'd barely noticed the door open. He swallowed the pills and practically chugged the cup of tea, ignoring the soft tut it brought. "Thanks, Alfred."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"You're welcome, Master Bruce."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce groaned as he settled into the cushions again, having managed to find a position that supported his neck without putting too much stress on his head. "It's so loud down there," he whined, aware he was sounding like a child.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I shall break up the disputes when I'm done here," Alfred promised, bringing a cold washcloth to Bruce and laying it across his eyes. The sensation helped a little, though it was just a drop in the bucket.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I regret having so many kids," he grumbled. At Alfred's dismissive snort, he insisted, "I mean it this time."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I have heard the same sentiment ten times this week, and it's only Tuesday. And yet all your favorite photos involve adoption courtrooms and overcrowded birthday parties," Alfred replied as he set a very soft playlist to run in the background. They'd discovered it helped with his headaches on accident, but now it made an appearance every time.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"No, I really mean it," Bruce argued. His words slurred a little, though he had barely laid down. "Did you drug the tea?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Of course."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Normally, he'd fight it, but right now the quick descent into unconsciousness was a blessing. "Thanks, Alfie," he whispered as his eyes fell shut.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Of course, young master," Alfred replied, and Bruce smiled at the endearment from his childhood as Alfred pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>His dreams were more of a swirl of memories, most with his kids both in and out of costume, and some with Alfred from when Bruce was just a kid himself. It was a pleasant sleep, much better than his all too frequent nightmares. When he eventually opened his sluggish eyes, he was happy to find that there was no headache lurking behind them. It was almost midnight, and though he knew the Batman should be stalking the streets, he really didn't want to pull himself out of bed. It was a testament to his exhaustion (maybe that's where the migraine came from) that it took him another few seconds to realize he couldn't have even if he wanted to. His arms were wrapped around a sleeping Tim in soft Batman pajamas. "He was out pretty much the second we shoved him on the bed," Dick's voice told him softly. "You're the one who cuddled up to him."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce lifted his head and looked around. His bedroom floor was now a massive nest of blankets, pillows, and family members. Some were reading, others on laptops or phones, and Damian was on his 3DS. Damian was dozing off sandwiched between Dick and Jason, though he kept jerking up to play a little more. He wasn't the only one; Steph had her head in Kate's lap and was completely out of it as the older woman played with her hair, and Babs was asleep at her laptop, head pillowed on Dick's other shoulder. The music was still drifting through the air, and despite the ruckus from before, no one was making enough noise to smother it. "I didn't realize I was hosting a slumber party," he joked, noting that they were all in pajamas and clearly settled in for the night.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Dick pointed towards his head, unable to reach all the way without dislodging one of his sleepy companions. Bruce shook his head and Dick smiled. "You could have told us to keep it down before, you know. We're assholes but we're not monsters," Dick chided him gently.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"You're not assholes."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I most certainly fucking am. I've worked hard to perfect it. Don't ignore all my hard work, old man," Jason said, not even looking up from his book. "Cassandra probably isn't, though."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Ok, that's fair," Dick acknowledged with a slight. "Neither is Babs. And Luke seems pretty okay. Duke too. But the rest of us? Terrible people."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Fact," Kate agreed.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"But we still would have shut up if you said anything," Jason said.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Half of you were having a good time; I didn't want to ruin that. And I wasn't able to deal with the other half."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Deal with? Bruce, we were screaming at each other like little kids. We could have taken it down to the Cave and worked it out there," Dick argued.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"I'm your dad, I'm supposed to be able to help you sort it out and settle it. But it was too hard to think."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Sorry," Duke piped up.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"Seriously, just say something next time, man," Luke said.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce smiled, looking around at all of them. God, he loved them. "So about that slumber party…."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Cassandra shrugged from where she was curled up under so many blankets that Bruce could only see her head. "Gotham can look after itself for a night."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>He couldn't help how his arms tightened around Tim at the words. It'd been so long since he'd given himself a true night off to just be with his family. And they were here now, all of them alive and speaking to each other and to him, all at the same time. "Besides," Jason said, "if you're calling off sick, we should too. I have the new Murder on the Orient Express on Blueray."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Jason was looking at him now, and Bruce returned his wide grin. "Think Alfred will let us have popcorn?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"You'll probably just be limited to soup. But I'll eat some with you."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Dick was watching them with interest, but he didn't interrupt. The others waited just as quietly, probably hoping he'd make the decision he'd already decided on. "A night in sounds like a great idea."</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>The atmosphere in the room felt even warmer, and Bruce scooted himself and Tim over to make room as Jason and Luke set about getting the movie to project onto a wall, obviously prepared. He raised an eyebrow, and Kate explained, "They were hoping you'd feel up to watching it. What's a slumber party without a movie?"</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>"A pretty shitty slumber party," Duke commented. Bruce had to agree.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>A couple hours later, when his bed was full of more Robins and there were only a couple open sets of eyes in the room, Alfred came in to collect the drinks and popcorn containers (and two soup bowls). "So, Master Bruce, how many children do you regret inviting into your life, again?" the butler teased.</span>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <span>Bruce didn't bother to vocalize his answer, because they both already knew it: not a single one.</span>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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